sessions
by Settely
Summary: i couldn't do a thing then, doc, i just couldn't... AU no heroes, no enemies, just a psychotic breakdown; Napier/Wayne, teen and adult times; a mini-series of psychological sketches and a path towards the madness
1. diagnosis

**Patient number 3667776**

**Name:**

**Birth date:**

**Sex:**

male

**there are no documents, no identity card or birth certificate on this Patient, he isn't known among the police either; he seems to exist outside the system**

**Diagnosis:**

**Anorexia nervosa **(Patient weighs currently ca. 104 pounds by 5,6 ft height; there are some episodes of bulimic behaviours);

**Dissociative amnesia **(Patient remembers less than two years prior but has a rather impressively easy access to memories from his childhood); Patient tells stories that could have never taken place, mixes facts and keeps thinking out new facts from his life;

**Obsessive–compulsive disorder** (nervous habits e.g. rhythm tapping, leg or hand trembling, lips licking); obsessive thoughts (Patient talks constantly about a friend of his from childhood and Patient's mother); Patient washes his hands every time he touches something (he counts his moves - their number must be 7 or 13);

**Bipolar disorder **(at least three manic and two depressive episodes in the last four years); during depression, notes of self-harm; Patients constantly talks to himself;

**Panic attacks** three or four times a month;

Patient has undergone two **psychotic breaks** since coming to the asylum; the cause of them has still not been discovered;

**Treatment:**

•_25 mg __**Clomipramine**__ tablets_ three times daily;  
•_**Benzodiazepine**_ (only when panic attacks occur);  
•_0,5 mg __**Fluanxol**__ tablets_ three or six times a day (depends on the Patient's current state );  
•_15 mg__** Abilify**__ tablets_ once a day (during manic episodes);

**Side-effects: Patient often suffers from splitting headaches, anxiety, insomnia and itchy skin (mostly hands or throat); his vision sometimes blurs.**

**As for now, this treatment hasn't changed Patient's state noticeably.**


	2. session one

He begged me to stop this. I remember clothes being torn and closed curtains. I couldn't move, every time, hands so useless, dangling at both sides. I kept crying.  
It was always dark, perhaps the middle of the night and he kept screeching and screaming. I couldn't watch, my eyelids more safe. Welcoming every time THAT happened. It would have been no use to interfere, my strength nothing then. Could break nuts and open cans so easily but that was it. Nothing more. Couldn't even put my foot down, even for him, for crying out loud.

No, I'm sure I hadn't seen HER come before. It was the first night, you know. Afterwards, it did repeat. But no, nothing prior. You could've called us a sweet little family before, no blood relation though. But that one night and then, all the others, even though I still don't understand why, something broke. Perhaps HER boss had gotten angry or other rubbish like that. SHE was a monster and no helpful theories of yours will ever change that.

Am I angry? Quite frankly, yes. I'm infuriated. But I think this' the end of today's session. We've got an eternity now to talk to each other. No _need_ to give away all the aces today. Go, get your papers and shoooo! I'm **finished**, doc.


	3. session two

_Awww, a new doc to accompany me in my misery. __How __**sweet**_.

**How old are you?**  
Me? I... I watched cartoons back in the 80's. It was so fun, you know! I'd get up every Saturday at 8 am and run towards the TV. We used to watch those cartoons together, freshly made sandwiches squeaky in our hands, smiles plastered to faces. Mommy didn't like that. She'd always say that we're just wasting time. That I ought to clean the house and repair the car instead of gawking like a fish onto the screen. She used to push me around when I pretended not to hear. I never let her touch him though. He was precious. Precious things can't hurt. They're too important...

**Why do you keep telling such long stories?**  
I... I need details, they're the most important, yes! I remember so many details but my mind... I just keep mixing up stuff together, I don't know what's before and after... I remember him, he's the most vivid thing in my head. I feel cold, doc... I know, I did something, I'm sure as hell... but... my head hurts so much from these drugs... They're so bitter, but nurse never allows me to swallow 'em with a glass of juice or lemonade. It's unfair! When we were little, we'd always get a one from HER. It could be with a tint of strawberry or blackberry but always sour and cold. I once spilled it all over HER blouse, SHE got so angry then, doc. I... He screamed at me to run but I froze... and...

**SHE...**

**I...**

**I... him...**

_**Patient started crying. Session had to be cancelled.**_


	4. harleen

It was dark in the apartment. Curtains closed a few hours ago, the air heavy from the afternoon heat. There were loads of papers scattered across the floor. Some pencil sketches, notes filled with red or black ink. A few books with bent pages, psychological theories, dietary or drawing handbooks. She looked outside, raindrops smudging away the lines of the streets, lanterns as bright as stars. She sighed when the phone finally rang.

Most likely, it was that creep once again.

He kept texting her since a case of some autistic guy, calling and telling her just how wonderful he was and how revolutionary his work to the scientific world would be. She highly doubted that. She wondered sometimes whether he was just plainly stupid or there was a method to his madness, those forever on-going rambles, silly invention plans, the whole _flirting _with her. Just, ewww.

Really, for all she cared and knew, he was sometimes crazier than all of their patients combined. At least in his megalomania and the lack of taste or tact in conversations.

Massaging her temples with just fingertips, she sat down heavily on the sofa. Her mobile was still ringing, vibrations sending chills down her spine. Maybe this time it won't be all about him, but rather something relevant at last?

"Jonathan?" she drawled, checking her fingernails. "Hi, what can I do for you?"

She heard him squeak with delight upon hearing her voice. For crying out loud, how old was he? Five?

"Yeah, nice to hear you too" she grimaced, searching for a blanket. Where had she put it yesterday? It had to be there somewhere… "Ah, I see. So, what's up? Anything I could help you with?"

"Hmm? Napier? Yeah, you told me about him a couple of times, I think, what's with him?" Nope, never heard the name, but what the heck. Jesus, why should she care for his patients anyway? Blanket, where are you…? "You've got a meeting tomorrow? About him? Mhhhm."

Oh. So the autistic's name's Napier. Sweet.

"I see, Jonathan, but what connection…" Oh, there it goes again, Harleen. There it goes again. "Jonathan, I understand but what do I have in common with your patients and meetings you've got on them… Hello? Jonathan, what d'you want this time? Just tell me and be done with the whole masquerade, okay? I don't have all day."

Ha, that's the spirit girl! Perhaps this talk would be the end of their so called _friendship._ At last!

He mumbled something pleadingly. "Jonathan, stop acting like a spoilt child. I'm sick and tired of helping you out all the time. Yeah, I am. What? Oh, Napier. So what about him? Mhm. Mhm."

Crane kept on talking for about ten minutes on a project he and his colleagues had had been doing for the past three years. Now that she thought about it, Harleen HAD had heard about that Napier guy way before his call. He was one of those non-responding patients, no matter how much medications or therapy sessions they'd have, there'd be no result. He remembered nothing but his childhood? Interesting, really… Panic attacks, manic depression? Arkham had had only five or so similar cases to this in its 100 year-old history… They still didn't know anything? But, what…

"It's everything you've got on him? Just a couple of broken sentences? You gotta be kiddin' me, Jonathan!" She sat up immediately, blanket forgotten that instant. "For crying out loud, Crane! You've had him for almost three years only to yourself and now, what? Not a single full report, no notes of his behaviour, just some talks! How's that possible in the twentieth century?"

Really, even such a fool like him could've taken the job more seriously! Harleen stood up, remembering a book she'd bought some time ago. There was a paragraph Arkham himself wrote on the ethic of a psychiatrist. She'd so show it to Crane the next day, that pathetic, little…

"Jonathan, stop this instant! Why the hell are you even calling me? Yes, I remember our rule! What…? No, I'm not ungrateful but you have to understand me too, Jonathan. Mhmm, no…" That slimy git! "But, Jonathan...!"

Throwing her hair behind her back, Harleen was sure she'd never ask for any help again in her future career of a psychiatrist. Just because Crane helped her once in writing a report on amnesia and obsessive-compulsive behaviours in her college times, so that she could get to Arkham, didn't mean she'd be forever doomed to get him out of trouble! Firstly the case with molestation, then those false reports! She'd strangle him the moment she had the opportunity to if she could. Bastard.

"Tell me, what do you need me to do this time" She poured herself a glass of water, forgetting about the book. Even thousands of rules or whole volumes of them would have no effect on him, after all. The almighty Jonathan Crane. Oh, how the mighty have indeed fallen, Harleen wondered. He was one of the most famous people in the scientific world once, tons of lectures, amazingly cured patients! Crane was one of the reasons she'd come to study and then work in Gotham. He was fantastic at the beginning but after the famous fall-out, every so-called friend of his turned his back on him. He told her that it was because of some money issue that they'd stopped working with him, but Harleen knew it was only partially true. No one wants their wives being raped while having a new doctor around, after all. He started talking about crazy inventions, some fear gas or something else like that afterwards, when all of the doors closed in front of his nose at the same time. Funny, he was once called the most sane mind of Gotham.

She began walking around the living room, picking up stuff and organising it all a bit. "Yeah, Napier. Okay, okay." Hmmm. How they'd come up with that name anyway? He'd just told her that they had no papers on him... Oh, what the heck. She could always ask him later about that one. "I see... What do I need to do? What...? HELLO? Jonathan, are you joking? Say WHAT? Crane, you're fucked up! Entirely messed up! There's no way I could possibly do that, no way! I say NO FUCKIN' WAY, JONATHAN! Oh no, no, NO, mister, you can't possibly do that to me, NO! Hello? Don't you even dare to hang up on me now, Crane... HELLO...? HE... You..."

Harleen fisted her hair, screaming out of frustration. That BASTARD, that slimy git had just left her once again with the grimmest job ever! How could she possibly be the new therapist to Napier? HOW? She knew nothing of practical stuff, she was just out of college for crying out loud! He couldn't have possibly done that to her, WHY? She picked up a vase and threw it at the wall, thousands of glass shreds shimmering brokenly at her feet.

She'd get Crane for that. And his death wouldn't be in any means enjoyable, at least for him.

him.


	5. photographs

**Chapter five**

_**photographs**_

„Personally, I don't like playing cards, ya know. Can't remember all the rules, silly schemes most of the players tend to come up with during playin'. It's just… dunno. It seems utterly and fully boringly BORIN', doc. Just like that," There was some noise, movement of some sort she guessed. "although, I can understand why some people are so mad about 'em. All those ornaments on those sheets, the emotions you can see just beneath the surface, on faces of your opponents, it's… well, mind-blowing, I guess!"

The laugh, which erupted from the throat just after a second, was quite broken, if Harleen could describe it with only one word. It seemed, as if he was choking on something, high tones intertwining with long pauses, breathing raspy and irregular. There were those noises once again, the record becoming more grainy and the sound becoming more distant.

"He liked to play poker with me, doc, one of his dirty hobbies. "The breath was still raspy, echoing in her skull. Harleen wrote down the word, her red biro somewhat shaky while adding_: The subject describes a new activity; no name of the mysterious boy being mentioned._ She looked at the Dictaphone in front of her thoughtfully, taking off her glasses and biting at the frame absent-mindedly. She looked up when the voice quickened, till becoming frantic at some point. "I told him it wasn't a good idea but he'd always say it wouldn't be a problem, she wouldn't have anything against us playin'. Time and time again, doc, I begged him to be cautious but he wouldn't listen to me, he wouldn't LEARN anything, doc! I kept tellin' him and he JUST. WOULDN'T. LISTEN."

Harleen stared at the gadget and Crane smiled lazily one of his lopsided grins while leaning onto the back of her chair. She turned her head and hissed at him immediately upon sensing the weight but he only gestured dismissively with his hand toward the Dictaphone. She huffed and gripped her notebook tighter, bringing it close to her chest.

"But what exactly wouldn't he learn?" Crane's voice was quiet on the tape, whisper-like. There was a clear curiosity in it and a predator-like need. To know, to have things cleared-up , at least a bit. She looked at his face, inches now only from hers. She was sure he had had the same look on his face as now. Half-lidded eyes, lips pressed tightly into a firm line, glasses a bit askew on his nose.

The voice hummed, seeming more balanced for a moment, just before bursting into a fit of giggles. "Doctor, I guess it ain't a secret for ya, just what parents of naughty children like me tend to do to 'em when they caught 'em red-handed during a game of poker or any other thing they find stupid or illegal at the mo...," Grains of the tape grew stronger, bits of changing a position on the chair more audible. Harleen thought she heard a small sniff, something akin to rubbing a material onto the skin and a hiss. She didn't know what exactly think of them, sounds faint but growing nearer after some seconds. 

"Guess we will have to stop here as for today, Harley. There's nothing interesting left on this tape. Just some noises and buzzing. Someone must have dropped the cassette during the big clean-out in the archives last year or something." Crane winced at a sudden shriek-like tone, quickly taking the Dictaphone in his hand and switching it off scornfully. "I know it seems really complicated to you now, but believe me: this freak isn't even a jigsaw meant for five-year-olds. His case is one of those most easy ones, really."

Harleen glanced at him doubtfully, glancing from time to time at her notes and the gadget he was still clenching. "How come, Jonathan? To me, it doesn't look easy at all." She opened her bag and looked for a moment for some photographs Crane had given her earlier that day.

"Harley, dear. I've been doing this job for the last ten years thus I DO know what I am saying. And I'm saying that this case IS a piece of cake, especially for a brilliant doctor like you."

She just sighed, finally playing her fingertips over the slick surface of the shots. Each of them was a blurry, monochromatic snap shot done by the wrong light and later developed in poor conditions, in a room either too draughty or too humid. Not many details were visible, but she could at least get used to his face for all of the three photographs of him Crane had given her, were in fact portraits. 

It was neither the prettiest one Harleen had ever seen, nor the ugliest one. The man looking across the small universe of those shots seemed nearly… boringly normal, to tell the truth. Nearly, as the first thing she saw each time were big, plump and pulsing in the faint light of a bulb, scars. Scars leading from across his lips up his jaw and nearly to his cheekbones, their lines forking, shimmering and hurting her own cheeks, her own insides with lots of twisted meaning , metaphors and explanations. She'd never seen anything like that. She dragged her fingertips across them, looking into the eyes of the man. They were dark in the photos, deep-set and encircled by shadows. His jaw was a bit square, cheekbones high, nose broken in a few places. If she made out such tiny things correctly, his hair was matted, ends meddled. He must have had them dyed a few times at least, tones mixing up and dying in the dimmest fragments of the shots. 

"If you want some more, I can try and look for the rest of films. I think I've got somewhere one more left at least." Crane smiled at her shyly, looking across her shoulder. She didn't hear his footsteps and soon his face was pressed against her hair. "Perhaps we should make ourselves a quick break, huh? You seem to get lost in your thoughts awfully a lot today, dear."

"A coffee sounds great but nothing more. At the moment I'm not in the mood for eating anything, sorry." Harleen dismissively ruffled her hair, knocking the glasses from his nose. She winked at Crane and quickly made her way to the door.


End file.
